


Among Friends

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Murder, Dark, Drama, F/M, Failed Murder, Gen, Violence, and another attempted murder, i think its dark anyway, threats of murder, too much drama in fact
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-19 13:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13124745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: And Héctor understood. Ernesto had never liked getting his hands dirty. The poison would have been a clean murder, no blood spilled, no struggle to be had. And in case that hadn’t worked, Ernesto had prepared himself a safeguard.He hadn’t planned on ever letting Héctor leave.





	1. The Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> Eeeh, this is mostly a challenge I gave myself. Drama and action are not my forte, so I figured I needed some practice, and I wanted to try out a different writing style. Turns out I go overboard when I practice, and end up writing novela level drama. Also, this is the last oneshot I'll be posting before updating my multi chapter fics. 
> 
> Also, I kinda feel like I should apologize? It's a lot darker than what I usually write. But, the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write it out. Sorry!

It took a while for the realization to sink in.

If Héctor had not seen the same vial before, he would never have given it a second thought. But the moment the little glass bottle had toppled off the table behind Ernesto and fallen to the floor, his eyes catching enough of a view to recognize it before it shattered, he’d known. He’d _remembered._

Days ago, while bunking in a kind rancher’s home while traveling to Mexico City, Héctor had seen that same bottle on a shelf in the rancher’s wooden cabinet. 

“This is strong enough to kill the angriest bull,” Señor Gutierrez had said conversationally after drinks. Héctor and Ernesto had been given a small room to sleep in for the night, in exchange for a few songs at an impromptu party for one of the ranch hands. Before turning in for the night, Gutierrez had offered drinks.

Ernesto had wanted to turn him down. Héctor had convinced him to stay. 

“You keep it with your tequila?” Héctor had asked, laughing incredulously, as Gutierrez carefully placed it back into the cabinet. 

“I like to scare my ranch hands with it,” Gutierrez had said, winking at the younger men. He and Héctor had laughed, and Ernesto had chuckled, sipping quietly at his glass of whiskey.

That night, curled up in the small cot Gutierrez had given him, Héctor had heard Ernesto leave his own cot and walk into the hall. He hadn’t thought anything of it. But now, standing an arm’s length from his best friend, poison drying on the floor between them, Héctor thought, _I should have known._

But how could he have? Ernesto was his oldest friend. His _friend._ How could Héctor have guessed that as he sat by his side sharing a drink as they always had, his friend had been planning to murder him?

“Héctor,” Ernesto said, and chuckled once, gesturing flippantly at the shattered glass around his boots. “This is--this is not what it looks like--”

“What,” Héctor said, mind still reeling. He felt numb. He blinked, eyes still trained on the shimmering glass, on the drying, colorless liquid. “That this is Gutierrez’s poison?”

In his hand was a shot glass. It was still full of the tequila Ernesto had poured him. He’d been holding his guitar case in that hand, and he’d placed it down to take the drink Ernesto had offered. But now the glass felt as heavy as the guitar, the weight of implications too painful to consider pulling at his fingers.

“Héctor,” Ernesto said again, and laughed again, but his smile was just a bare tilt of his lips. “It was a joke. A joke amongst friends.”

“A joke,” Héctor repeated, hallowly. 

A joke. Amongst old friends. They had joked before. Laughed until their sides ached. Slapped each other on the back until the good humored insults were nothing but fond memories.

His friend had given him poison. 

He breathed out. He felt as if someone had driven a mallet into his gut. His _friend_ had given him _poison._

“I wasn’t going to let you drink it,” Ernesto said. He gestured at the shot glass still held loosely in Héctor’s fingers. “I was going to knock it out of your hand! You didn’t think I was going to let my oldest, dearest friend drink _poison._ Did you?”

He did.

He didn’t want to believe it. He wanted to laugh, as if it really was a joke. One final prank before he left their conquest around Mexico. But fighting the shock, and the disbelief, and the horror, was the knowledge that his friend had tried to kill him, and had almost succeeded. 

The glass had been at his lips. If the vial hadn’t fallen, and the amber liquid had touched his tongue…

He felt sick. 

“Of course not,” Héctor said, and huffed a laugh. He could feel his hand tremble. With fear, or fury? Both? 

He glanced at the door. He would run. He couldn’t fight. He’d wrestled with Ernesto before, and though they’d always been in good spirits, the older man had always left him with bruises that lasted for days. And Héctor had never won.

He didn’t want to fight his friend, anyway. He felt as if he should. He thought he should want to kill him in return, drive his fist into Ernesto’s grinning face until there was only a mess of broken bone. His friend had tried to murder him, shouldn’t he want to have his revenge?

But he just wanted to go home.

“That was very funny,” he said, and forced a laugh. Ernesto chuckled along, but he had followed Héctor’s gaze, and was watching the door. “I, ah, should probably put this down, no?”

“Yes,” Ernesto said, and watched Héctor set it carefully on the nearby bed. 

When he let go of the glass, a breath left him in a rush, and he laughed almost hysterically. He’d almost swallowed that poison. 

“Bueno,” he said. He wouldn’t speak of it again. To anyone. He wanted to go home, and confronting his friend would only prolong his stay. 

He wanted Imelda. He wanted to hold Coco. He wanted to be in the warmth of his home, with his familia. And the taught feeling in his chest told him if he said anything of the poison, he would never leave.

Ernesto watched him, a strained grin still on his face.

“Good luck with your dream, Ernesto,” Héctor said. _And go to hell._

He reached down for his guitar. 

He hadn’t really expected to step out the door without some resistance. But the body crashing into his side was still a shock, still enough to knock him to the floor. He slid across the wood, the heavy weight of his old friend enough to drive the breath from his chest. He threw an arm out, fist clenched, hoping to catch Ernesto in the chin, but his fist only swung through thin air.

A hand gripped his hair and pressed until his face was held against the floor, and he felt a knee dig into his back.

“Pinche pendejo! What are you _doing?_ ” Héctor yelled, and tried to throw Ernesto off. 

“You’ll tell them all,” Ernesto growled. “I can’t let you ruin my _name!_ I cannot be known as a murderer!”

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I swear it, Ernesto!” But Ernesto only pressed harder against his skull, dug his knee deeper into Héctor’s back. Gritting his teeth, Héctor felt something slick beneath his cheek, and a sharp pain. The shattered glass of the vial was cutting into his face. 

Panicked, and furious, and still in a state of shocked disbelief, Héctor rammed his elbow back. He knew he was a gangly thing with sharp corners, and his elbow had gotten him out of more fights than you’d think. Sure enough, he felt the impact against Ernesto’s midsection. Ernesto groaned, and miraculously, Héctor was able to roll until the stockier man was thrown off. 

With a gasp, he scrambled towards his guitar. Why couldn’t the man just let him leave? 

He heard Ernesto curse and roll to his feet. 

Héctor’s hands gripped the dark case, and he threw it in front of him like a shield. 

The flash of the blade was enough of a shock that the rest of his insult died in his throat. Standing before him, gasping and shaking, Ernesto held a blade as long as his hand, and stared down at Héctor with wide eyes, as if the sudden appearance of the knife had shocked even him. 

“You--you--” Héctor gasped, and pulled the guitar case even closer, the wall hard against his back. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Understand, Héctor,” Ernesto began, and took a slow step forward. Héctor saw the man’s eyes harden. “I did not want to use this. But you have forced my hand, my friend. If you had just taken the poison, this would all have been easier.”

And Héctor understood. Ernesto had never liked getting his hands dirty. The poison would have been a clean murder, no blood spilled, no struggle to be had. And in case that hadn’t worked, Ernesto had prepared himself a safeguard.

He hadn’t planned on ever letting Héctor leave. 

“We were friends,” Héctor gasped, as Ernesto stepped closer. “Ernesto--”

“Friends?” Ernesto shook his head. “Once, perhaps. But you were going to leave, right as my future was starting to take shape! My _dream._ You never wanted what I did, you selfish fool. But I needed you, and your songs,” he paused, and bared his teeth. “And your pinche guitar. I need them to grasp my future, Héctor.”

Ernesto had always been charming, and handsome, but he’d never had Héctor’s easy talent on the stage. Since they’d first held a guitar when they were young, Héctor had tutored Ernesto in every aspect of guitar playing. Ernesto wouldn’t have half his talent if it hadn’t been for Héctor.

And he’d never been able to understand the art of songwriting.

Then again, he didn’t have the muses that Héctor saw in his family.

Quickly glancing aside, Héctor saw the door was just behind Ernesto. Héctor could use his guitar case to knock him aside, and make a run for it. He began to push himself to his feet, slowly, as Ernesto advanced, holding the heavy case against his chest.

Imelda had given him the guitar. Imelda. If he could just see her again, the things he would tell her--

“I needed you,” Ernesto said. “But you were going to leave, and take it all with you.” He paused, as if thinking twice, and Héctor held his breath. But Ernesto shook his head and moved forward. “I don’t need you any longer.”

Héctor gathered his strength, and swung.

The case hit Ernesto in the side, and he stumbled back, cursing.

Héctor ran.

But the universe was forever against him. With a snarl, Ernesto reached and grabbed, and Héctor was pulled back until the guitar case fell from his hands. He swung a fist and caught Ernesto’s cheek, just as a thick arm hooked around his neck and _jerked_.

Héctor gasped. Arm hooked tight around the younger man’s neck, Ernesto pulled, baring the underside of Héctor’s chin, and raised his blade.

His eyes were wild, face red, breath fast.

The blade pressed into Héctor’s neck.

“ _I have a family!_ ” Héctor choked out at last. His eyes burned. His _chest_ burned. 

Imelda. Coco. His beautiful wife and his baby girl. He saw them, a clear memory, even as he stared through watery eyes at the dark ceiling. His last memory.

He should never have left. Dios, he should never have left them.

The blade pressed into his neck, but didn’t cut. Emboldened, Héctor grabbed at Ernesto’s arm, and he begged in a rough voice, “Ernesto, por favor, you know them. _Mi familia--_ ”

“Your family,” Ernesto repeated. “Yes. Your family in Santa Cecilia.”

“Si,” Héctor gasped. ”Imelda, and Coco. Please, Ernesto, you know them!”

“I do,” Ernesto paused. Héctor swallowed. His life was in the hands of an egotistical maniac. His _friend_ of over 10 years. If their friendship had ever meant anything to the man, the same way it had meant to Héctor, he would let him go.

“Wouldn’t it be a shame,” Ernesto said, slowly, and Héctor’s heart dropped. “If you were to return to Santa Cecilia, and an empty house?”

Shock froze his thoughts and his voice. His mind raced to process what Ernesto had just said. An empty house?

“What would become of you, if your sweet wife and child were gone?”

“I’ll kill you,” Héctor promised, even as he trembled, even as he realized with a sickening clarity that this man, this stranger who had been a friend, was not only trying to kill him, but threatening to murder his family. “I’ll _kill_ you--”

“Remind me, old friend, who as a knife to whose throat?” 

The blade pressed again, as if he needed a reminder. 

“You are going to stay,” Ernesto said, still breathing hard. “And you are going to write your songs, and play your songs, just as before. You are not going to take my dream from me. And know this, amigo,” he added, as Héctor bared his teeth in a snarl. “You will not survive another fight with me.” 

And then--Ernesto let go.

Héctor stumbled forward, clutching at his aching neck, and collapsed onto the nearest bed. He slumped there, gasping, shaking, and was vaguely aware of Ernesto sitting across from him on the second bed.

He clenched his jaw, and stared at de la Cruz from beneath the fringe of his hair.

“Perhaps this will turn out well after all,” Ernesto said. He’d set the knife on his lap, one hand still loosely gripping the handle, as he watched Héctor catch his breath. He nodded reassuringly to himself. “You don’t have to die, and I don’t have to lose my future. We both win here, amigo. I hope you see that.”

“ _No,_ ” Héctor breathed. “I want to go _home,_ Ernesto. To my daughter, and my wife. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Sitting up, he gestured sharply at the guitar case abandoned on the floor, and the suitcase he’d never been able to pick up. “You want my guitar? Take it. My songs? Have them! Just let me go home, Ernesto. _Por favor,_ ” His voice cracked. “Just let me go, and leave my family alone.”

“And risk having my reputation ruined? No,” Ernesto snapped. “I will not let my career rely on some sentimental peasant in Santa Cecilia.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it,” Héctor said.

“Yo se,” Ernesto said. “We both know what will happen if you do, yes?”

“ _You--_ ”

“We also know who has the upper hand in a fight,” Ernesto continued over Héctor’s growl. “Again, I promise you, Héctor, you will not survive another. And after you are gone, who is to say what will happen to your family?”

Héctor buried his face in his hands. He gritted his teeth. He felt his heart throbbing, he could feel it through his entire body, an energy that was screaming to be released. 

But what could he do, without putting his family at risk?

“Please,” he tried again, one last time, and let Ernesto hear the anguish in his voice. “Ernesto, you don't have to do this. Don't threaten my family. I’m sorry I tried to leave, I’ll stay, I promise--”

“Amigo,” Ernesto said, as if Héctor had not spoken, as if they were friends again, as if he hadn’t just tried to murder Héctor twice in one night. “Let us forget that. Let us forget _tonight._ I may even forgive you for trying to leave, yes? We have an important performance tomorrow. A performance you were going to miss.”

Ernesto’s sudden change in attitude left Héctor reeling, even as he sunk further into hopelessness. He felt faint. His throat ached, and his cheek burned with shallow cuts and possibly dredges of whatever poison had been left. But none of if compared to the ache in his chest. 

He was never going to see home again.

“This will all be but a memory tomorrow,” Ernesto said, almost as if he were trying to convince himself, and Héctor couldn’t care less. “An argument between friends. Nothing more.” He reclined back, watching Héctor still slouched at the foot of the second bed. “Get some sleep.”

“Sleep? How can I sleep?” Héctor breathed. “After what you've done--”

“You can either sleep, or rest in a shallow grave,” Ernesto said. He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

Furious again, Héctor made to get up, but when Ernesto gripped the blade, he froze.

He could tell someone. Yell for help. Surely someone had heard them struggling, and if they heard a yell, someone would come.

“Who will believe you?” Ernesto said. Had Héctor spoken out loud, or had Ernesto guessed his thoughts? “The poison is gone. Only our empty glasses and a half used bottle of tequila remain. I will simply tell them you’re drunk.” Ernesto shrugged again. “People have always had an easier time believing me than you, Héctor. You know this.”

“Sleep then,” Héctor snapped. “But I promise you, Ernesto, you had better sleep with one eye open tonight, and for the rest of your life, as long as I am here.”

He’d hoped a threat would finally release him from the prison he’d found himself in. A threat, even if he had once again put his life in danger that night. But Ernesto grinned.

“My friend. We both know you don’t have it in you.”

With that, Ernesto turned to put out the candle by his bed.

Héctor remained where he sat. He could not sleep. Not when the waking world already seemed as a nightmare. He stared vacantly into the dark, and the ache in his chest never subsided. He didn’t know what to do. Though Ernesto had stretched out in bed, Héctor could still see the man’s eyes watching him. He knew the knife was close to Ernesto’s hand. If he left, he would die, and who was to say what Ernesto would do to his unsuspecting family? Even if he was killed, and Ernesto didn’t have the energy or drive to go after the Riveras--could Héctor risk that?

No. He could not. He wouldn’t. He’d already left to pursue another man’s dream, how could he place them in further danger?

Besides, he did not want to die. Even though he had promised he would stay, he still wanted to see home. He wanted to see his daughter. He wanted to see his wife. He did not know if they would ever accept him again, but even if he caught only a glimpse of them, he would be content.

He just wanted to go home.

With a feeling like a boulder sitting in his chest, he watched the door that he could not cross, listened to Ernesto’s breathing, and thought of Coco, and Imelda, and the life he had left behind.

Somehow, someday, he would return home.


	2. The Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....I dunno why this is the fic I ended up updating. Severe lack of fictional drama, I suppose? As if the movie itself wasn't heartbreaking enough? (Also, I do need more practice writing drama. Drama is hard, ok? Everything is hard.)
> 
> If I've made any mistakes with my awful Spanglish, or any mistakes at all, please let me know! And thanks for reading!

Héctor didn’t sleep that night.

How could he? Trapped, held in some metaphorical prison by a man he’d considered his friend that very morning, left to sit in his own grief while he watched the door that may have well been as distant as Santa Cecilia itself. Seep was a far off thing, barely a thought on his mind. It simply wasn’t possible. 

And for all of Ernesto’s flippant attitude, Héctor knew the man wasn’t sleeping, either.

His would-be murderer was a good actor, he’d give him that. He always had been. Eyes closed, head elevated by two flat pillows the inn had left for them, Ernesto was as still as a corpse in bed, except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hands were at his sides, one hand curled tight around the handle of the gleaming knife he’d held to Héctor’s throat.

Héctor wasn’t sure how long it had been since those horrifying moments where he’d almost lost his life twice. After Ernesto had laid back, silent, Héctor had stared at the door, that same boulder-like feeling sitting heavy in his chest, his throat and cheek aching. 

Sitting there, slouched and head bowed, he’d almost hoped that it had all been a dream. He’d wake up on the train, halfway home, with nothing but a crick in his neck because he’d fallen asleep sitting up in his seat. 

But it was a ridiculous hope, because he never did wake up. The nightmare was real, the pains and aches across his body more than just some imagined details of a sleeping mind. 

His friend had tried to kill him. 

_Twice._

Héctor ran a hand down his face. His entire situation was ridiculous. What kind of a fool was he to allow himself to be led away from home, days away from home, far from his wife and child, by a man who had feigned friendship? A man who had coveted his songs and his guitar of all things?

A man who had grown up with him. 

After a while--he wasn’t sure how long, but it felt like an age and a half--Héctor finally drew his eyes away from the door to stare at his hands on his lap. His took a deep breath, and turned to look at Ernesto’s still form.

“How long?”

Ernesto’s eyes snapped open, and he watched Héctor through the dark. “What?”

“How long have you been planning to kill your best friend?” Héctor demanded. He swept a hand at the broken bottle still sitting on the floor. “How long have you been carrying around a bottle of _poison?_ "

Ernesto narrowed his eyes, but didn’t answer.

Héctor snorted. “What, now you can’t talk? What have you got to hide, Ernesto? I already know what you were trying to do. The least you can do is give me one answer.”

Shifting in bed, Ernesto sat up against the headboard. He folded his hands in his lap, still holding the knife, and shrugged. “My friend, I cannot give you one answer for two questions.” He smiled. “The answers would be very different.”

For a moment, Héctor couldn’t speak. He stared, breath heavy, eyes wide. How long had he been in danger from this man? How long had he laughed with him, eaten with him, slept in the same room as him, while Ernesto looked at him and saw only the face of a corpse?

“After everything,” he breathed. He still felt as if he couldn’t speak. His friend. They’d wandered the streets of Santa Cecilia together as children. They’d sat in the shade of Señora Vega’s crooked lemon tree together every hot, Sunday evening, nibbling on sweet strawberries they’d begged off of Señor Gonzalez at the market. 

Where had it gone wrong?

“You said you would move Heaven and Earth for me,” he said, accusingly.

Even in the dark, he could see Ernesto’s sneer. “I would have, once. But you have shown me time and again that you would not do the same for me.”

“That’s not true--”

“The fault only lies with you, Héctor,” Ernesto said. Héctor let out a shuddering breath and looked up to meet his gaze. “When you spoke of staying home instead of working towards our dream--I knew, if you left, you would take your songs with you.” Ernesto clenched his jaw and looked down, flipped the knife back and forth in his palm. “You were going to ruin everything. After you knew how long and how hard I had struggled to finally seize my _future._ ” He looked up again, eyes hard. “You sealed your fate the very moment you put your selfish wants above the future we had worked for, together. And the poison? Well, how long has it been since we left Gutierrez’s home?”

Héctor looked away, eyes burning. He didn’t know when he’d first voiced his desire to remain home. He couldn’t remember when he’d begun to speak of returning home wistfully, or when he’d had his first misgivings about leaving for their tour. But he knew it had been months ago, before they’d ever left Santa Cecilia. Ernesto had planned this for months.

He wanted to scream, to throw himself at the grinning musician and grab his shoulders and shake him and yell _You idiot, I’ve never been anything but your friend!_ But he couldn’t. He _couldn’t._ He couldn’t do anything.

Impulsively, he pulled his legs onto the bed and curled in on himself, hands clenched in his hair, head bowed. He couldn’t look at Ernesto anymore. He didn’t want to hear him anymore.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, steadily. 

It was his fault. Not for Ernesto’s reasons, of course, which were _stupid_ \--it was his fault for leaving home in the first place. He should never have left Santa Cecilia.

“Sleep, Héctor,” Ernesto said, and Héctor curled tighter into himself, as if it could hold off the words of the man who had once been his friend. “If you recall, we have an important show tomorrow. It is _vital_ to our plans. It’s not every musician that gets to play in Casa de Sol.” 

Héctor heard the shuffling of sheets, the creak of an old mattress. Ernesto was laying back in bed. “You’ll thank me, amigo. I may never have the same applause without your songs, but you will never find the same opportunities without me. But you know this, yes?”

Héctor gritted his teeth. He couldn’t answer. He wouldn’t answer. The only opportunity he wanted was to go home, and Ernesto knew that.

“Héctor?”

“I don’t want to speak to you anymore,” Héctor snapped.

A beat of silence. Ernesto chuckled. “So petulant, Héctor. You have not changed much, have you?”

No, Héctor thought, dismally. He bit his lip. He hadn’t changed much. But Ernesto had. 

Héctor didn’t reply, and Ernesto said nothing else. But for the shuffle of the blanket and the soft sound of his breathing, he was quiet.

There was silence for the rest of the night.

\--------------------------------------------------------

Morning came too slow.

Héctor picked his guitar case up, suitcase already in hand, and followed Ernesto out the door. He didn’t need to look in the single, cracked mirror in the corner of their room to know his eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess, his suit wrinkled. Ernesto, on the other hand, had made full use of the mirror, slicking pomade through his hair, straightening his suit, practicing his charming grin. Héctor had watched him from the corner of his eye from where he sat on the bed, slouched over, elbows heavy on his knees. 

The idiot had done the same routine every morning, and every morning Héctor had teased him about it. 

There was no teasing this time. Héctor could barely look Ernesto in the eye without being overcome with a mixture of almost uncontrollable rage and grief.

“We can walk to Casa de Sol after breakfast,” Ernesto was saying, as Héctor shut the door behind them. “I woke up this morning with quite an appetite.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” Héctor snapped. He didn’t want to go anywhere where he had to sit at the same table as his murderer, at least not so early in the morning.

Ernesto laughed, and slapped Héctor on the shoulder. Héctor flinched, and cursed himself for reacting at all, but Ernesto didn’t notice. Or maybe he didn’t care. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Héctor! If I woke up hungry, I know you are ravenous. You’re always hungry in the morning. Come! The hotel’s rooms may be disgusting, but I hear their food is to die for!”

Ernesto grinned, and Héctor grimaced. Leave it to Ernesto to find his humor when Héctor had no desire to laugh with him.

With a chuckle, Ernesto took Héctor by the elbow and began to lead him around the corner, where the hotel’s main entrance sat with two dry trees on either side. As Ernesto’s fingers curled around his elbow, Héctor jerked his arm out of his grip.

“What,” he snapped, meeting Ernesto’s glare with one of his own. “You don’t trust me to walk on my own?”

“Then walk,” Ernesto said, and gestured with a flourish of his hand.

Pursing his lips, Héctor walked ahead, knuckles white as he gripped his luggage tight.

The street ahead was wide, and already a few people were walking to and fro under the early morning light. Héctor paused at the hotel entrance and watched the citizens of Mexico City going about their business. He saw someone carrying a basket of bundled flowers, and two others walking with what looked like a set of rolled carpets between them. A young family stood at the corner of one building, laughing at a little boy’s attempts to jump on his shadow, and in the shade of a low tree, a grandmother sat in a wicker chair, braiding a little girl’s hair. 

His chest ached. It reminded him of Santa Cecilia.

There was a tiny, tiny voice telling him to run. He could drop his luggage, bolt into the crowd, leave Ernesto floundering behind him. He’d always been the faster of them, though Ernesto had always beat him at brute strength. If he could only reach home before Ernesto, everything would be fine.

But there was the chance that Ernesto would reach Santa Cecilia before him. 

Earlier, while Ernesto had picked the shattered glass from the floor with a handkerchief, Héctor had wondered what would happen if he tackled him then and there, and beat him unconscious. He could reach home, then.

But there was still that chance. The chance Ernesto would find Imelda and Coco before Héctor ever stepped foot into his own home.  
Héctor could never do that to them.

“Héctor,” Ernesto said, pulling Héctor from his thoughts. “Have you forgotten how to walk?”

“No,” Héctor snapped, and stalked through the open doorway, leaving the crowding street behind him.

\--------------------------------------------------------

The hotel dining room was small, crowded, and hot.

Six tables filled the main floor, and each one had at least two guests chatting over plates of food and mugs of coffee. There was a counter near the kitchen entrance, where four men sat on wooden stools, bent over their breakfast. Two young women were moving through the floor, carrying plates heaped with steaming food, moving with ease through the narrow spaces between the seated guests.

Ernesto headed for the two empty stools at the end of the counter, and Héctor slowly followed without protest. 

“Hey! Look who it is!”

Héctor winced. Ernesto paused, and turned to see a woman step out of the kitchen, dusting flour covered hands on her apron.

“These are the boys I was telling you about, Alberto,” she said to an uninterested man seated at the counter, sipping languidly from a mug. “They were here last night, playing this song I’d never heard before! What was it called, a--”

“Who cares?” Another man seated on a stool snapped. His eyes were almost as bloodshot as Héctor’s. “Feed them and get them out of there, Anita. All they do is make a ruskus. You should have heard them last night, kept me up for hours!” He turned to glare at Ernesto and Héctor, who had both frozen in place. “What were you two pendejos doing? Sounded like a bull fight in there, Dios mio!”

Héctor’s breath caught in his throat. 

The cook was watching them, as well as every guest seated at the counter, waiting. 

Someone had heard. Now was his chance--

“Would you believe,” Ernesto said, suddenly, stopping Héctor's thoughts as if cutting through them with a knife. “He was trying to kill me!”

Silence.

Héctor stared at him. What was he doing? Playing this off as some, some joke? What did he think that was going to do? Suddenly, as Héctor continued to stare, shocked--the room erupted with laughter.

Héctor's jaw dropped.

“I don’t blame him,” the first man said around his laughter. “If I had to listen to your horrible singing, I’d try to kill you, too!”

More laughter erupted after that, from everyone except for Héctor and Ernesto. Ernesto only chuckled, very likely insulted, but Héctor was silent.

He couldn’t believe it. He’d hesitated a moment too long. And again, for the third time in two days, Ernesto had taken everything from him.

His chance was gone. 

“No,” he gasped, and gestured sharply at Ernesto. “No! It's not a joke! He--he was trying to kill _me!_ ”

No shocked gasps, no cried of indignation or fear. Only laughter. He’d just made it worse. They still thought he was joking. And why wouldn't they? He recognized most of them from the crowd from the night before. During that show, he and Ernesto had joked on stage. They'd smiled and laughed and acted like friends because they _had been._

_Pendejo,_ he thought, and didn’t even flinch when Ernesto patted his shoulder almost sympathetically. _Why did you wait? Why did you let him speak first?_

“I like you boys,” the cook, Anita, said, still chuckling and wiping tears from her eyes. “And because I like you so much, I’ll make you a deal! You can each have a plate, on the house, if you play us the same song you played last night. What do you say?”

Exclamations of agreement came from different tables. The man with the bloodshot eyes made an annoyed noise and got up to leave, glaring at both Héctor and Ernesto as he left.

Ernesto had his hands on his hips, wearing him most charming grin. “I like that deal. What do you say, amigo?”

He grabbed Héctor’s shoulder again, and Héctor shrugged him off. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The cook’s smile faltered. Still grinning, Ernesto stepped closer, slung an arm around Héctor’s shoulders, and said in honeyed tones, “My friend, if you remember our conversation from last night, you might decide that playing for our fans would be a very good idea, no?”

Héctor’s shoulders were stiff. He clenched his jaw, glaring at the floor, and ignored the threatening hand on his upper arm. 

How long was he supposed to suffer this ridiculous nightmare?

“Fine,” he snapped, and cheers followed him as he stepped up to the counter and out of Ernesto’s reach. He set his suitcase down with a thunk, placed his guitar case carefully on the counter to open it. The grinning headstock met his anguished look with impassivity, the white of the shinned body catching his reflection. He hesitated.

Not once had he ever dreaded picking up his guitar. Not once.

Until today.

“We don’t have all day!” Someone called.

Héctor shut his eyes, took a deep breath.

He reached in and reverently lifted the guitar out. No matter the circumstances, his guitar was still his guitar. Imelda’s gift. A piece of home. 

He swore, as he held it close, and moved to stand against the wall, he could smell the sweet fragrance of his wife's perfume.

“The song we played last night,” Ernesto said, moving to stand next to him. “I forget. What was it?”

“Un Poco Loco,” Héctor said flatly. Ernesto had pestered him for weeks to allow them to sing it in front of crowds.

He’d written it for Imelda.

He glared at Ernesto, but the hate and fury he was sure his eyes were showing did nothing to damper Ernesto's spirits. With a grin, Ernesto stepped ahead of him, so that Héctor stood in his shadow.

The guests were watching. Anita had taken the seat left empty by the irritated guest, and the two waitresses were leaning on the counter, waiting.

Ernesto was waiting, too. He glanced back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

How long was he supposed to suffer his nightmare? Héctor thought on it again. 

He thought of Imelda, standing where Ernesto stood, smiling over her shoulder at him. He thought of Coco, tapping along with her little shoes, laughing as her Papá changed the lyrics to something silly and ridiculous. The memories were like jolts of energy. The grief that had overcome him lessened, the weight in his chest lightening. He had a goal. He had purpose.

He wasn’t going to suffer this nightmare for long. He wasn’t going to let Ernesto do this to him. He was going home, and he was going to keep his family safe.  
Grinning tightly at Ernesto, Héctor played the beginning notes. Ernesto smirked, satisfied, and turned to the crowd, sweeping one arm out as he began to sing.

And Héctor, repeating his promise like a prayer, played along, watching Ernesto’s back, a million plans racing through his mind.


End file.
